


Selection Night

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: Inspired by Chapter 6 of PecanSandy's Early Years...Theresa's cramps hit on exactly the wrong night in the early 90s.





	Selection Night

“Theresa, I don’t think this is going to work tonight.”

Theresa was curled up on the couch, clutching a heating pad to her stomach and dressed in one of her best suits. She’d lay down here repeatedly as she’d gotten dressed that evening, taking short breaks from her hair and her make-up, and she was having one final rest before heading out the door to a candidate selection meeting. She had a good shot at selection this time, a really good shot, and she was determined not to miss it.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said. “I just want a few more minutes with the heat, because we don’t have to leave until 6:30. There’s no reason I can’t do this.”

“You seem like you’re in a lot of pain. I think that’s a pretty good reason to stay home.” Philip was bending over her, and he stroked his hand over her hair as he said this.

“It’s not that bad.” This was only sort of a lie: her cramps were definitely painful tonight, but she’d suffered far worse, and she didn’t doubt her ability to stand.

Philip sighed and moved to sit on the couch, and she drew her knees up further to make room for him. As soon as he was settled, he gently lifted her feet into his lap. “Sweetheart, it’s okay if you don’t go. You’re not going to get blacklisted for being ill, and the speech you wrote can be reworked for the next seat.”

That was very little consolation when she’d worked so hard to prepare for _this_ seat, and there might not be such a good chance for months or even years.

“I just don’t want you to do something that will make you hurt worse,” he went on when she didn’t respond, and she felt a gentle tug in her chest at the wistful sincerity in his voice.

“It won’t make me worse.” Having to move around wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t make her cramping _worse_ , exactly.

“It won’t make you better, either. What would make you better would be if I could run you a hot bath and then rub your back after you’ve relaxed for a bit.”

She felt herself weakening at the thought of what good care he would take of her if they stayed home, and how much better it would make her feel. But… “I want to do this, Philip. I really want to do this.”

Her husband sighed again. “I know, love. I know.”

They fell into silence as the next ten minutes ticked by, her eyelids growing heavy at the warmth on her stomach and the comforting way his thumb was working over the arch of her foot.

She started at the sudden sound of his voice, her eyes flying open: “It’s 6:30, love.” And then, his tone growing troubled: “Had you fallen asleep?”

_“No,”_ she said firmly as she eased herself into a sitting position. “No, I was not asleep, and no, I don’t want to stay home.”

_The schools,_ Philip thought, trying to will the words telepathically into Theresa’s head. _The schools._

She’d reached the point in her speech where she was meant to discuss the state of the local schools and her personal plans for them, a subject that he knew was dearer to her heart than any other. Theresa had begun to deal with their childlessness by considering any education policy with the attention of a mother.

But she’d fallen silent. As usual, Theresa was speaking without notes, and she’d skipped over other important parts in her speech already. He’d wondered at first if she was merely trying to make her speech shorter so that she could sit down sooner—she’d moved tensely on her way to the podium, slouching slightly, and he knew there was nothing worse for her cramps than standing—but he now could tell that at least some of it was down to forgetfulness, to an inability to concentrate well enough to remember the words she’d scripted. And the uncomfortable pause told him she knew very well she was forgetting something.

After another few seconds, she managed a thin smile and moved on to wrapping up—only not nearly as well as he’d heard her practice at home, and his heart sank. Her speech had been, frankly, terrible: she’d spoken with no passion and little energy, she’d jumped wildly from topic to topic, she’d ignored several issues she’d been asked to address, and there’d seemed to be little point to any of it. It wasn’t a tenth of the speech he knew his wife could deliver. He watched her stiffly take her seat and curl forward immediately, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. Then she glanced up at him, her sad, despairing eyes locking with his, and he knew she was well aware of what a mess the speech had been. He practically had to grip the metal folding chair he was seated in to fight an overwhelming urge to rush up and hug her. He knew exactly how she would process this: she wouldn’t accept that she might not have won the seat anyway, and her heart would break at how terribly she’d performed. He also knew that Theresa wouldn’t blame her condition: she’d blame herself for not being stronger.

Anger flashed through him as the next candidate began his speech: his Theresa could run circles around these people any day of the week. She’d deserved this spot, she’d earned this spot, she’d worked for this spot, and now…now it was all down the drain, thanks to the condition that had already taken so much from her. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. Theresa deserved better, and he would give his right arm to make her syndrome disappear. And if she had to be sick…why did it have to attack _tonight_ , of all times?

He watched her as the speeches dragged on, Theresa squirming slightly every few minutes. The others in the hall probably took it as nerves, but he knew it as pain, and he sighed with impatience, thinking of everything he could do for her if they could just get home. Why had she had to come tonight? There’d been no sense in it.

He knew the answer, of course: duty and commitment above all. Theresa would never back out on what she’d committed to do. Especially not when it was connected with public service.

Philip groaned inwardly as the last candidate took his seat. He knew what was coming next: questions from the audience, and he did not think Theresa was in any state to think on her feet. And just as he suspected, she missed questions that were directed to her, had to ask for them to be repeated, and sometimes only half-answered. She was floundering, and there was nothing he could do to help her: nor would she take the simple option of announcing she was ill and asking to be excused.

The worst that would be said of her, he supposed, was that her nerves had got the best of her…but who would want to send a candidate like this out on the campaign trail, or to Parliament? _This Theresa May is a mess,_ he could almost hear the members around him thinking. _Absolutely collapses under nerves. And this with a friendly crowd!_

He wanted to work the room, telling anyone and everyone that Theresa was ill, that tonight demonstrated her great dedication, that she cared so much she’d come here when she should have been home in bed, but he knew she would not thank him for it. She hated being pitied and she would never want special treatment, and he knew as well that it had been hard for her to tell even him about her condition.

He tried to remind himself that no one would likely remember this. A nervous-seeming candidate was nothing new at a selection night.

At last it was over and the candidates were leaving the platform in preparation for the vote. Philip made a beeline for Theresa, squeezing past other party members who had taken to their feet as well. He had closed the distance between them before she was more than five steps away from the stage, and he reached for her immediately. She let him wrap her in a bear hug, and he realized as he did so that she was trembling.

“You were amazing,” he said, and she truly had been. He had always suspected that he would have been curled up on the floor screaming if he ever experienced her cramps.

She pulled away, shaking her head. “It was terrible,” she said hollowly.

“It was _not_ , but let’s get you home.”

She stared at him. “Home?”

“Your stuff is done—”

“But the selection isn’t. We can’t just leave. I know I won’t win, but I can’t just duck out.”

“Theresa, you’re not well. We can tell the chairman—”

“I’m not a schoolgirl skiving off class,” she snapped.

Philip sighed inwardly. He was used to this Theresa, who wouldn’t stop when she needed to, and she was almost impossible to look after. He’d long ago learned not to push when she was like this.

“Let’s sit down, then,” he said calmly. “You can at least relax a bit now that you’re not onstage.” He gave her his arm, careful to offer it casually enough that it could pass for a standard gentlemanly gesture, and she took it without so much as a furtive glance around the room, which told him she was more eager for help than she let on.

Theresa leaned on him as they walked slowly to the seats he’d had an eye on in the back of the room, where he hoped she’d have slightly more privacy. She eased herself down, and he was reminded of how difficult any jarring movement was for her at these times. Her arms went protectively over her stomach again and she hunched forward, her eyes closing for a moment.

Philip bit his tongue. He wanted to ask her how she felt, and make sure she wasn’t getting worse the longer they stayed, and ask if there was anything he could do for her here that would help, and suggest again that they go home, but he knew she wouldn’t take any of it well. He’d learned early on that taking care of a sick Theresa was a delicate business, and she would not be nursed until she wanted to be. There was also nothing she hated more than being peppered with questions about her symptoms, and she would never be cajoled into anything. They would leave when she was ready, and not a moment sooner. If only they would hurry up and count the votes.

Theresa was staring at the floor, but he watched her carefully, familiar enough with this pattern to recognize the sudden tensing she tried to hide at each new stab of pain. “Sweetheart…” She shook her head, and he sighed. At home he could deal with this. At home there was the couch and the bed and a heating pad and a bathtub he could fill with hot water. At home she would let him snuggle her and rub her back and hold her hand.

But they weren’t at home, and they weren’t going there anytime soon. 

“You can lie down in the backseat, love,” Philip said, squeezing her hand where she was tightly gripping his forearm as they walked slowly to their car.

“Can’t I sit in the front by you?” she asked. What she wanted was to be close to Philip, far more than she wanted to rest comfortably.

“I don’t think you’ll be very comfortable in the front—you can’t lie down. You’ve looked like you needed to lie down all evening.”

“Yes. Of course,” she said quickly with a small nod, sensing his irritation with her and with the situation. “I’ll get in the back.”

Theresa had lost, of course. She’d expected that after such a terrible performance, and she’d lost badly. She didn’t take the loss itself lightly when she’d thought she had such a good chance, but far worse was the terrible impression she’d given at the selection night. It would have been one thing to lose the seat by a hairsbreadth, everyone going home and thinking favorably of Theresa May, who would surely be a worthwhile candidate elsewhere. Instead, she’d be remembered as the woman who could barely give a coherent speech and who certainly couldn’t handle taking questions. Someone who ought not to be running for any seat anywhere.

It also would have been one thing to have realized she genuinely wasn’t capable, that she was an insurmountable distance away from the more qualified candidates. That she’d done her best and it simply hadn’t matched anyone else’s best. But she hadn’t done her best. She was capable of a far better performance, and she would have been the equal of the man who had been selected…had she not given in to her body, not let herself be so distracted by how she felt.

It was no surprise that Philip was disappointed in her as well. He’d sacrificed too for her potential political career, and here she was, blowing the best chance she’d had in years.

Theresa whimpered, trying to curl into a tighter ball on the backseat. The steady ache she’d had in her stomach when they’d left the house had transformed into a hungry, furious wolf trying to bite and claw its way out of her, and she was desperately trying to find a position that would ease it. Curling up made her stomach slightly better, but it didn’t help her back, which was cramping now, too. She was longing for heat…why had she come tonight?

“Are you doing all right, love?” Philip asked, and she could hear the worry in his voice. She hated that.

“Yes,” she lied.

“We’ll be home soon,” he promised, and she nodded. She ought to have taken his advice and stayed home in the first place.

At last they were pulling up outside their home, the car coming to a gentle stop in the drive, and she forced herself to sit up, drawing a sharp breath at the pain that stabbed through her.

“Easy,” Philip said, his eyes watching her in the rearview mirror, and she sensed a gentle reproach.

He opened her door as she was struggling to reach down for the heels she’d kicked off earlier. “Why don’t I just carry you in?” she heard him ask. “I’ll come back for your shoes later.”

“No.” She shook her head, finally grasping the second shoe and slipping it back on. “I can walk.” She didn’t want the final humiliation of not being to make it into her own house.

She let him help her from the car, but as soon as she straightened, her insides twisted painfully, and she cried out, her knees weakening.

Philip caught her, but his next words almost made her wish he hadn’t: “Theresa, this is ridiculous. Let me carry you.”

She swallowed and managed a slight nod, slipping her arms around his neck as he lifted her. _Ridiculous._ That was a good description of the whole evening, really, she thought, burning with embarrassment.

She could sense how careful he was being, as always, to ensure that she wasn’t jostled as he walked, and that embarrassed her too. That she was so delicate, so needy, so often. She protested that he could put her down at the door, that she could handle it from here, but he insisted, awkwardly managing to open the door with her still in his arms.

“Do you want to go straight up to bed?” Philip asked as he stepped inside.

“No, I’ll lie on the couch for awhile.” The heating pad was still there from earlier, she remembered, and she was determined to make it up the stairs herself later. The idea of climbing a flight of steps was beyond her at the moment, but if she could lie down again and have a bit of heat she suspected she’d be able to manage.

Philip said nothing, and she read further irritation in his silence, an irritation that she’d felt since they’d left the hall and he’d sent her to the backseat. She hated herself for it, because she knew it was justified: she might not have been able to prevent her cramps, but she could have either taken his advice and stayed home, thus preventing the damage her name had suffered tonight, or she could have tried harder to push through.

Still silent, he set her down on the couch, and she bit her lip to keep from whimpering as she lay down, her face to the back of the sofa so that she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him.

“Heat, please,” she whispered once she was settled, despising the desperation she could hear in her voice.

“I know.” She hated the brusqueness of his manner—Philip was never like this—and she hated it worse because she knew she was the cause. But a moment later, he was passing her the heating pad, and she clutched it to her stomach, praying it would be warm soon. She wanted two of these, and they did _have_ two of them for moments like this: her stomach felt like it was being ripped to shreds, but her back was on fire now, too, her hips shifting and straining her muscles as her bleeding increased. But the last thing she wanted to do was ask Philip to go upstairs and dig through the closet for another heating pad.

She heard his footsteps leaving, and her momentary relief was quickly replaced by a miserable emptiness. She was used to having him near her when she wasn’t well, having learned early on in their relationship how comforting his presence was. She didn’t want to be left alone on the couch to suffer, but she also didn’t want to endure any more reminders of how much she’d disappointed him.

But she hadn’t been abandoned, Theresa realized when he returned a few minutes later. “Did you want to take anything?” he asked quietly, and she looked up to see he had a glass in one hand, the other clasped together as though holding pills.

“Is that Nurofen?” she asked. The over-the-counter painkiller barely touched her when she was like this, but at least it was something. It might combine with the heat to give her enough relief to get upstairs, change into pajamas, and collapse into bed.

Philip nodded. “I brought three.”

More than the recommended dose, then, but she often did that when her cramps were bad. She raised herself up on her elbow and took it, and then Philip returned to the kitchen with the glass. Next she heard him in the closet in the hall, and she tried not to wonder if he was coming back again, tried to concentrate only on the growing heat on her stomach as she curled herself into a tighter ball. Her _back_ …

He did return, silently this time, and she didn’t bother to look up. She didn’t need anything else, and she didn’t want to hear anything about her performance that evening. She didn’t want to listen to him pretend it was all right, when they both knew it wasn’t.

Theresa heard him approach the couch, and the next thing she knew, his hands were slipping off the heels she hadn’t bothered to remove when she’d curled up here. This was followed by a blanket settling over her feet and her legs, up to her waist. That was so like Philip: he might be angry, but he’d still think to make sure her feet and her bare legs weren’t cold. She felt tears clog her throat, and she tried to swallow them.

His hand came to rest on her hip. “Could you scoot in a bit so I can rub your back?”

It seemed like a very wrong this to expect of him in this context, but she did not know how to respond, and so she merely shifted toward the back of the couch, giving him room to perch behind her. As soon as he was settled, she felt his hands press carefully against her lower back, assessing the tightness in her muscles before slowly increasing the pressure. He was good at this, and she couldn’t deny that: she’d told him back when they were at university that having her back rubbed helped, and he’d pursued the idea with the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever. He was quickly an expert at the task, and the truth was that a long backrub from Philip did more to ease her pain than heat and pills and rest combined.

But tonight, when she already felt so guilty…

“Philip, you don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice sharp with the tears she was holding back.

His hands stilled on her back. “Is it not helping you? Do you want me to do something else for you instead?”

Of course it was helping, but she didn’t want him to do _anything_ for her. “It is; it’s just…you don’t have to do anything more for me. I know you’re already…irritated.”

_“What?”_

“And I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I really am sorry about all of this.”

“Theresa, you’ve got _nothing_ to apologize for. Nothing! Don’t ever think you have to apologize for a condition you can’t control!”

“I made such a mess of tonight,” she said thickly, no longer able to stop the tears. “And I could tell you were angry, and I understand why—”

“I’m not angry! Love, I could never be angry with you for this!” He reached for her hand, and she rolled backward to look into his eyes. There was horror and pain at her suggestion in them, but also love, and she knew at once that he was sincere.

“You’ve just…seemed like you were.”

“Not with you.” He reached for a tissue from the table at the end of the couch and began to wipe her tears away. “I wasn’t angry with you, sweetheart. I was angry about what happened to you. It makes me angry that you have this problem, and it always makes me angry that it’s so painful. I _hate_ that for you. And tonight I’ve been even angrier, because it wasn’t fair for you to lose your chance at the seat just because your period happened to start. You were worth twelve of any of those other candidates! You deserved to win that, and I’m angry you weren’t able too because of something you had no control over.”

“I didn’t do my best, though,” she said, a sob swallowing the last word. “I could have tried harder!”

“Oh, love.” He smoothed her hair. “You _did_ do your best! No one else would have gone at all in the shape you were in! For God’s sake, you could barely stand up, and you were up there trying to give an election speech.”

“But I—but I should have…”

“But nothing, Theresa. You were incredibly tough, and you made me incredibly proud.”

More tears spilled over at that, and he squeezed her hand. “I just wish it hadn’t happened tonight,” she whispered.

“I do too, sweetheart. You’d worked hard, and this wasn’t fair.” She nodded and wiped at her eyes again, knowing that it was difficult to stop her tears once they started at this time of the month. “Do you want me to rub your back some more?”

She nodded again. “Yes. That really helps.” He helped her ease herself onto her side, and then she felt his hands begin to work over her back again, his thumbs digging in against the pain. She let her eyes close…she wouldn’t sleep yet, but this was the most comfortable she’d been all afternoon and evening.

Theresa lost track of how long she laid there, relaxing into Philip’s touch as he traced slow, heavy circles over her muscles, but eventually she heard him softly whisper her name.

Her eyes opened. “I’m not asleep.”

He smiled as she turned her head to look back at him. “I didn’t think so, but it’s getting late. Do you think you’d like to go to bed?”

It was late, she was sure, and she couldn’t spend the whole night on the couch. She took stock of her body, fidgeting slightly: the cramps in her back had eased slightly, and, while her stomach still hurt too, she knew she could stand. She thought she could handle steps as well, but she also sensed that her back would lock up again, and the wolf in her stomach was crouching and waiting for the wrong move.

“Yes, but…could you…”

“Carry you upstairs? Of course, sweetheart.” She reached for his hand, and he took hers and squeezed it. “Do you just want to go straight to bed, or would you rather have a bath first?”

“A bath please, if you don’t mind running it.” She felt far too gross when she was on her period to go to bed without washing first.

He’d return for her after he’d readied the bath, he said, and extracted a promise from her not to move until then. She had no real desire to, and ten minutes later, Philip came bounding back down the stairs. He eased her into a sitting position—“slowly, keep your movements slow”—and then gently and carefully lifted her.

She had always hated feeling dependent on anyone, hated accepting help, and in the beginning, she’d resisted Philip’s offers to carry her to bed when her cramps were bad. “Why don’t you just look at it as another way to snuggle?” he’d suggested, and he’d been quite right. She was wonderfully close to him when he carried her, and she could rest her head on his shoulder, bury her face in his neck, and let herself be soothed by his scent and the warmth of his chest.

She snuggled close to him now as he started up the stairs, comforted by the strength in his arms. He held her firmly, the way he always did, so that she barely felt their movement as he climbed, and she softly kissed his jawline in thanks.

“I’ll let you have some privacy,” he said softly, after he’d helped her undress and settle into the gloriously warm water. “But I won’t be far, if you need anything.”

She didn’t want that—the last thing she wanted was privacy from Philip. Her emotions were still swirling far too strongly for her to want to be alone, but she didn’t quite have the words to tell him this. Instead, she reached for his hand before he could turn to go, clasping it in hers.

“Do you want me to sit with you, dove?”

Theresa nodded, and Philip took a seat on the edge of the tub, his hand still clutching hers. For awhile, they didn’t speak. Philip, ironically, was good at that: her husband talked so much sometimes that she wasn’t sure how he wasn’t hoarse, but when she wasn’t well and needed to be still, he could sit for hours in silent companionship. His thumb stroked gently over her hand as he waited for her to speak, and she squeezed it occasionally for the pleasure of feeling him squeeze back. His easy, quiet presence was as soothing as the hot water.

“Philip?” she said eventually. “Do you think people…knew there was something wrong with me?” It had been playing on her mind all evening: who had noticed what, and what had they thought of her? She didn’t like for people to know if she was unwell, but she also didn’t like to think that they had judged her as simply incompetent.

“You mean, knew you had cramps? Or just knew you weren’t feeling well?”

“Either, I suppose.” The idea that anyone had suspected what exactly her problem was had not occurred to her, and it troubled her.

“Well, I doubt anyone realized your stomach hurt. I don’t think that was obvious.” He paused, thinking. “I’m not even sure anyone knew you weren’t well. I don’t think there was anything particularly dramatic about it, so I doubt anyone really gave it any thought.”

“But I was terrible,” she said hollowly.

_“No,”_ he said firmly, “you were _not_ terrible. You weren’t memorable, you didn’t give your best performance, but there was nothing terrible about it. You were by no means the worst one up there.”

“I wasn’t?”

“Certainly not. I think the worst that can be said about you tonight is that you were unremarkable. And I know that wasn’t your goal, and it’s not fair, but I certainly don’t think you left a _bad_ impression on anyone.”

“I’ve been wondering…” She heard her voice drop to a whisper, and she dropped her gaze to the water, as though she could hide from the reality of her fears. “Did I just come off as someone so horribly nervous in front of a friendly crowd that I couldn’t possibly handle the pressures of politics? Do you think that’s how they’ll remember me? The one who can barely give a speech?”

“No, sweetheart. No. I don’t think you came across that way at all. I think they were focused on the top candidates and not wondering about the nerves of everyone else. We’ve been to a lot of these; you know people don’t go home making lists of the most nervous candidates.”

As upset as she was, she heard the logic in his argument. The point of selection nights was to find a good candidate, not to develop a master list of bad ones. A poor speech did not equate to a lifetime’s blacklisting.

“So you don’t think I’ve ruined my reputation.”

“No! Absolutely not. No, not at all.” He paused. “The irony is, you were the strongest person on that platform. If they’d had any idea how much pain you were in…most people couldn’t have managed that. Wouldn’t have tried.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone to know, though.”

“I know, love. I know.” They fell silent for a moment, and then he said, “Theresa, you will be an MP someday. You will be.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand, but she could feel her interest fading. She didn’t really care anymore, not now. She just wanted to stop hurting, and she sighed softly.

“How are you feeling, dove?” he asked.

“I’m hurting…not like when we got home, but it all still hurts.” That was the awful truth of it…no matter what she did, her cramps never went away until they were ready.

“Why don’t we get you to bed? It’s late.”

She nodded. It was, and she was exhausted. She wanted to want to have been selected and to be excitedly discussing campaigns, but after hours of suffering, she didn’t think she really even cared about politics. All she wanted was bed, and she hated that. She hated what this syndrome did to her.

“I hate this,” she said softly, her voice sharp. “I wish I were _normal_.” She felt tears rushing to her eyes again, and she wiped at them furiously.

He squeezed her hand. “I hate it, too, dove, but I love you however you are.” Of course he did. She’d been sure of that since she was twenty.

“Let’s go to bed and see if you’re not a bit better tomorrow.” Philip stood to get a towel, and she pulled the plug and let him help her stand as well. “We’ll get you dried off and into some comfy pajamas,” he went on, “and I’ll help you get into bed. I can rub your back some more if you like, and then we can curl up with some heat on your belly.”

Of course. Of course he’d help her into their room and help her ease herself into lying down. Of course he’d rub her back until his own hands were numb if she needed him to. Of course he’d spoon behind her, letting her rest back against him while he wrapped his arm around her, carefully holding a hot water bottle against her stomach so that she could relax without having to hold it in place. Of course he would. He’d done it all and more time and time again.

It was all so wonderfully Philip, and she started to cry in earnest at the thought. She couldn’t do this without him. She couldn’t do any of this.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathed, wrapping her in the towel and taking her in his arms. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“I just—I just really love you,” she managed, her face buried in his neck.

He kissed her hair. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “But let’s get you some sleep.”

She nodded. All she wanted was to curl up with Philip, and it was a thought that suddenly made her feel incredibly lucky.


End file.
